Tomorrow
by mistfarer
Summary: "Really? You couldn't have said something other than 'well, you see, Dad, Derek and I are dating?"


(A/N: Written for tw_holidays on LJ. This is set in the mythical future, possibly during the summer after Stiles' senior year of high school.)

"Really? You couldn't have said something other than 'well, you see, Dad, Derek and I are dating'?"

Stiles flicks a butter-coated spatula at Derek's direction, huffing. "What was I supposed to say?" Stiles asks. "Hey Dad, I've been harbouring a werewolf in my bedroom for the last week because there's a group of psychopathic rogue hunters, who are hell-bent on ripping him apart piece by piece, in town. Again. Because, you know, that would have gone _so much_better."

Okay, point. He shoots Stiles a sharp look and goes back to peeling and slicing apples. Derek's not really a fan of telling the Sheriff about werewolves – of telling the Sheriff that _he's_a werewolf. It doesn't make this situation any less worse and any less awkward, though.

He's in Stiles' kitchen helping him bake a pie. For dinner. With the Sheriff. As Stiles' boyfriend.

What is his life, even?

"You realise that the statistical probability of your father at least maiming me tonight is pretty high on the normal curve, right?" Derek mutters glumly. He throws his hands up, knife still in hand, and curses. "Why did that coven of witches have to go and wreck the abandoned subway car? That was a great hiding place. Wasn't it a great hiding place?"

Stiles snorts. He moves towards the fridge and grabs another stick of butter. His hands are covered in flour and he leaves sticky smudges of fingerprints all over the refrigerator handle. "Uh, no, it really wasn't," he replies. "Also, less talky, more choppy. And watch where you flail that knife around. Not everyone around this room has superfast healing."

* * *

Derek supposes he should count the past two hours as a success. They managed to bake a good looking and very edible pie without burning down Stiles' kitchen in the process, so he thinks that's a pretty big win.

The Sheriff also hasn't made any overt threats on his person (yet), which, also win.

Sheriff Stilinski does spend an inordinate amount of time polishing his gun at the dinner table, though, but Derek chooses to believe that the Sheriff does that on the regular, and not as a means of scaring off Derek.

"This is good, Stiles," the Sheriff says without preamble after he takes a small bite of apple pie. Stiles had served up each slice of pie with a dollop of whipped cream on top and caramel syrup drizzled all over the sides. It looks like it was ripped from a page in Good Homes magazine. It's pretty fucking awesome, to say the least, but Derek he doesn't say that out loud.

Stiles grins widely at the compliment. "Thanks, Dad," he starts, "but it wasn't just me who made it. Derek helped a lot, too."

Sometimes, Derek _really_hates Stiles.

The Sheriff clears his throat and turns to Derek. "Oh, then, uh, I suppose I should thank you, too, Derek." His voice is pained and stiff, like he's just said 'Hitler was a good man' instead of thanking Derek.

"You're welcome," Derek replies. "Though, it was mostly Stiles. I just sliced apples." Derek tries to smile and sound as polite as he can, but he must be failing because he can hear Stiles choke back a laugh at his side. Dick.

The rest of dessert passes by in silence. He's about to excuse himself and help Stiles with the coffee machine when the Sheriff holds up a hand.

"Stop," Sheriff Stilinski says. "What are your intentions towards my son?"

Stiles groans loudly and Derek sees him bang his head on the table. It would be a little funny, except one quick look at the Sheriff informs him that laughing is probably the last thing he should be doing now.

Derek fidgets in his seat, and wipes his hands at the fabric of his jeans. When did his hands get so sweaty, anyway? "I, uh, care about him a lot?" he replies.

The Sheriff raises an eyebrow at that. "Is that a question? Are you not sure of how you feel about my son?"

Derek takes a deep breath. "Umm, it's not a question," he says. Derek hopes his voice is steadier that time, more assuring, and he tries not to shrink from under the Sheriff's gaze. Derek glances at Stiles for support, but Stiles' head is still on the table, eyes closed, as if he's trying to pretend that this conversation isn't actually happening around him. Fantastic help, really. "I care about him a lot. Stiles is tenacious and strong and I've never met anyone like him. I don't really know what else to say other than I'm lucky he chose me."

Sheriff Stilinski nods, seemingly satisfied with Derek's answer. "As long as you don't forget that I'm the Sheriff. And that I have a whole arsenal of guns should you hurt my son," he begins, "I just might not kill you."

The 'yet' is unspoken, Derek thinks.

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski's gone upstairs, and it's just Stiles and Derek in the living room now. They're sitting on Stiles' beat up couch watching hockey ("They don't televise lacrosse on national TV, okay? Hockey is the closest thing," Stiles had said.) when Stiles turns his attention to Derek.

"That wasn't too bad, right?"

Derek hums his assent, because really, in the grand scheme of the universe, it could have been a _lot_worse. He eyes Stiles curiously, though, because Stiles sounds a little unsure, a little hesitant, and since when did Stiles ever sound like that?

They're quiet for a while, a cheer from Stiles as Bobby Ryan sails a goal past Varlamov the only sound coming out from either of them.

"Would it be so bad?" Stiles asks, cutting through the silence.

Derek looks away from the TV and back at Stiles. "Would what be so bad?"

"Dating me."

Derek's initial reaction is to roll his eyes at Stiles and tell him he's terrible at making jokes, but Stiles looks serious, nervous. It's not the first time they've ever discussed the possibility of dating, but it is the first time they've ever talked about it without being under the influence of intoxication (Stiles) or blinding pain from Wolfsbane (Derek).

"It wouldn't," Derek says simply.

He hears Stiles suck in a deep breath beside him. "Oh."

Derek tugs at Stiles' t-shirt, pulling him closer, and throws an arm behind Stiles' back. "Shh, hockey now," he says. "Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow."

He feels Stiles nod against his chest. "Promise?"

"Promise."


End file.
